


Manners

by 1545011



Category: d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Alexandre Dumas - Freeform, Degradation, Dick Slap, Excessive Semen, Gay, Humiliation, M/M, NSFW, Pee, Piss, Sadism, Swordplay, Urine, big dick, blowjob, d'Artagnan romances, excessive cum, excessive penis, huge cock, huge penis, hung, hyper cock, sadist, slap, three musketeers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 07:50:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18406313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1545011/pseuds/1545011
Summary: more to come





	Manners

Fully invested in that moment, the younger man found himself unable to coordinate once he had found himself on the ground. His legs shaking and fists collecting clumps of dry grass as he found any minute outlet for this anger. How does he address his adversary? What could he have done in this moment? If only, he could leap backwards for just a moment he could have slain his opponent where he stood. He would like to imagine that, but doesn’t everyone overestimate their ability in a match when they themselves are inexperienced? 

The young man had foolishly initiated a duel with an older man who had slighted him. His dark eyes and face of disdain, almost pain or disgust as if he was looking at an insect rather than a man had burned holes into the young man’s side. He spat at his feet as he passed, unable to produce the effort to insult him verbally. To be an immolating object of embarrassment, it felt much more palatable to die defending himself than to bow to the dark eyed man’s expression.

However, he found himself having bit off more than he could chew. Upon meeting, they had both decided it was to be in the field on the hill to the south. There was nothing of interest in the way, save for a young sycamore whose broad limbs and leaves cast an auspicious shadow which the young man ignored as he riled himself up in preparation for his foe. 

The young man was D’Artagnan from Gascony, making way to begin his personal campaign of honor in Paris. With browned skin and dark flaxen hair, as he climbed the country north he had been confident in his abilities the whole way. Unwavering, D’Artagnan had believed that his Gascon upbringing had supplied him with all of the skills he had needed to triumph over any foes he would be sure to meet. Surely, he felt like each year spent in Gascony learning the ins and outs of combat and honor was three in Paris.  
But, eighteen years of age was still eighteen and D’Artagnan’s physiology remained far from that of a champion. 

Incomprehensible humiliation, the young man had begun to feel immature for the first time in his weeks of travel away from home, at the feet of this older man just south-west of Paris. His foe had knocked the lanky D’Artagnan from his fighting stance after mercilessly slashing at his chest and arms with his own rapier.  
D’Artagnan had put up a good fight, if he could describe it himself he would say it was nearly even. His own sword inherited from his father lay helplessly out of reach, buried in the dry grass which rustled in the wind. 

Previously, he had been so brash. He had swatted at the older man and insisted upon a duel. But now, D’Artagnan was at a loss for words as he cowered on his hands and knees alone in the field with him. 

This older man was perhaps six inches taller, and had long blackish hair which reached past his shoulders. His stature did not intimidate D’Artagnan in the least, until he fell like his prey to him. His skin was like alabaster, and coupled with his well pointed moustache and beard surely contributed to his intimidating atmosphere.  
With fighting D’Artagnan, he did not seem to overexert himself in the least. In fact, it appeared as if he literally had not broken a sweat. 

D’Artagnan was completely unsure of what to do from here, he had no words for this situation. Within himself, he felt like he was a beacon of rage. It felt as if there was a remote observer seeing it all play out, for the young man it might as well have been broadcast for the whole world. The sweat dripping from him, the embarrassing yelps of pain the older man had elicited from him as he stumbled, recoiling from his fierce slashes, it repeated endlessly in his mind’s eye.  
Stupefied, something inside of him felt as if the intensity of his emotions at this injustice invited a certain audience to enjoy his suffering, even if it was for just this scene. 

“Truly. You are insolent. It appears to me that you have never been chastised for your behavior, for your attitude.” The older man began. He scoured the field with his eyes. Perhaps, looking for his pathetic adversary’s rapier. 

D’Artagnan could not respond; He dared even to breathe. 

The slight crunch of the rough, thigh-high grass was ever so apparent to the younger male as it swayed and kneeled to the dark haired man’s boots as he searched.The fate of D’Artagnan’s rapier was clear and certain, it also was one of his darkest nightmares. A knot formed in his stomach, he felt like heaving. His insides were suddenly slick. 

Aloof and cold, the dark haired man suddenly gripped his hat against his head as the wind picked up. The plume atop the wide, felted brim bounced and fluttered playfully while the man attached continued his search. 

All that the younger man could think of is how evil this all felt. The anxiety and helplessness, it sent him reeling internally as he concluded that he surely was utterly trapped. 

He silently leaned down to pick up D’Artagnan’s sword. The older man regained his composure, letting go once more of his cavalier’s hat and strode back with both his own and his game’s blades equipped in either hand.  
The tanned boy dared to peek at his foe as he strode back. His dual rapiers on either side, it reminded him of a curious wasp unknowing of the hell it could unleash at a whim as he drew nearer once more.

The younger could not avert his eyes quick enough, the gravity of this older man’s presence truly had become apparent to D’Artagnan. The dark haired man stood like a lord before him, sheathing his own rapier to grasp the young man’s with both gloved hands. 

“Has no one ever taught you your place? It appears you don’t know the first thing about being polite.” He began, shifting his weight as he held both the younger male and his very sword at his mercy. The inherent malice of this man’s nature made D’Artagnan nauseous, if he could speak at all it would be a choking cry. 

The dark haired man gave D’Artagnan a kick to the chin, knocking his teeth together. It seemed he had decided one was enough, and held back. He shuddered and grunted with pain from the blow. It recurred, as this sadist placed his boot upon D’Artagnan’s weak head, pinning him.

“Today, you will learn. Especially because I am a man who appreciates manners.” He twisted at the waist as he spoke, his gloved fingers tracing the edge of D’Artagnan’s blade, the one passed from his grandfather to his father to him. Over his knee, the younger male learned his lesson as the man with the blackish hair placed the flat side of the blade on his thigh and broke it. Effectively, this rendered D’Artagnan left defenseless and stagnant in his ambitions.

The tanned man shook and stifled a sob as he heard the useless halves of iron meet the field once more; This older man tossed them casually away and dusted his gloves off against each other in an animated fashion. He did so without a sigh. It truly seemed mocking, despite it just being the nature of their fall. He had almost expected their blows to the ground to be silenced, how could they chose to do so at a time like this, when D’Artagnan faced a mortal wound of the heart.  
That line of reason could very well be considered childlike, perhaps this is why the dark haired sadist chastised the young Gascon like so; As if he had perceived it through some sort of psychic caricature of D’Artagnan. 

Setting his boot back on the ground, he had no desire to inquire with D’Artagnan further on how he felt after his malicious actions; To do so would be simple narcissism.  
Knowing he is defenseless, the young man could muster a response. If he had anything, he could only play back once more if he could go back in time, perhaps grab his rapier from the gloves of the sadist, and face him once more. This fantasy, would perhaps be his only comfort as his body blindly stayed at the stranger’s foot. 

Further, the older man saw an opportunity as he began to tear the fabric strip from the hat of his defeated adversary.  
To this, D’Artagnan was clueless and unwilling to wonder about his next twisted move.  
His blackish mane of masculine waves tossed about his head, as he looked from D’Artagnan to the distance and back once more.  
“Please, now,” His eyes darting, spying their arbor witness. “Make your way to the sycamore tree, I need you to kneel with its trunk behind you.” He commanded. 

D’Artagnan obeyed, nodding and still feeling the pain in his jaw from the older man’s previous blow. He followed close behind the saddened spirit of the young man who uncharacteristically so easily observed his direction.  
He skirted round the trunk, kneeling and grabbing D’Artagnan’s hands as he kneeled. Pulling them back behind the sycamore, the dark haired man bound him under the cool shadow where he kneeled. 

“There…” He spoke as if he had obtained audience to his handiwork and what he assumed was to come. Perhaps, there was a newfound excitement you could detect in him as he returned to face the captive D’Artagnan.  
Still, his dark eyes looked worse in this shade to the young man. There was a shining behind them, as if his mind had begun to wander deviously.

“Wasn’t that already already enough? Why, there is nothing more that you could take from me!” The tanned boy cried, his earlier sobs now dried from his cheeks. He could not think of the lewd ideas which others could at this moment, in his situation.

A dry smack met the head of the younger male from the sadist, and he began to reiterate what appeared D’Artagnan had forgotten.  
Only after a pause, he had continued. 

“Still, there is much for you to come to understand.” He began to unbutton the fly of his breeches, tossing back his cloak as it unfolded in the breeze.  
The older man unleashed his soft penis from his loins, and began to aim his urine stream at D’Artagnan. It noisily spattered on him, initially flowing down his forehead, rolling down his neck and staining both his doublet and his shift. Its smell was strong and it soaked the fabric of his doublet the worst.  
This would be the more problematic of these, since the efforts to be taken into account for cleaning his nice garment was far more intensive than that of his shift. Consequently, D’Artagnan could be smelling of the older man’s urine for several days if not more.  
Humiliating, he felt pathetic… Serving as a urinal for the man, punishment for his loss, his insolence and failure to be polite to his sadist foe.  
Worse, he swayed his stream around his face, into his hair and against his lips the worst. The sensation of the liquid flowing off of him was entirely frustrating. It reeked, it was warm. The urine disgusted the young man greatly. 

“You will take my piss. You will learn your place. You will understand, young man! This is the price for your lack of manners.” This dark haired sadist spoke haughtily as he urinated loudly, forcefully against D’Artagnan of Gascony. 

He drew closer as his stream dwindled. He smacked his penis on the tanned boy’s face a few times before shaking the last drops off in his darkened flax-colored hair. 

“Now, open. You must clean me.” He smiled darkly, leaning his hips forward to brush the dirty tip of his penis against the younger man’s lips. 

For some ungodly reason, D’Artagnan opened his mouth to accept the older man’s penis. He felt as if his soul had been drained from him temporarily, while his body was forced to perform and service this strange man. 

This dick on the other end of the blackish haired man was honestly huge. It outmatched any D’Artagnan had seen in every dimension, by a large margin notwithstanding its flaccidness. If he was to conceal it with his own hand, it would be useless as it would far exceed past the halfway mark of his thighs as it hung threateningly off of him.

He slurped deeply, sucking the soft and spongy head deeper into his mouth. The urine he drank from the source was unforgivingly bitter and difficult to swallow. It seemed to get stuck in his throat, preferring to stay on the back of his tongue. 

Alarmingly, the flesh of the man began to come alive inside him. While he could feel it engorge and thicken, it threatened to choke D’Artagnan. This should have been obvious to the Gascon, as the man attached to the monster mustered gasps and groaning sighs as he slurped. 

D’Artagnan coughed, it penetrated his throat and still thickened even as the sadist advanced nearer to him; Consequently shoving his growing cock further into his bulging throat. 

 

He exclaimed in pleasure, his face contorting joyously if only for a moment as he felt a fleeting spike of gratification from D’Artagnan’s useful throat. Finding it now appropriate to wipe his forehead with the back of his glove, the man then went to unleash his testes from his breeches as they, too, strained the fabric.  
Similarly, they were large like two fists; And had a strong but deliciously masculine odor to them. They bulged with innumerous sperm, the slick flesh of the engorged, heated sack largely concealed by their coat of dark hair. 

The tanned boy’s spasming throat became more aggressive around his sadistic lord’s dick buried deep in him. Now, it was thick like his own wrist and D’Artagnan feared it would pass his collarbone. 

Worse, D’Artagnan’s remote mind further meandered and reasoned; Along the lines of why? Oh god, why me? Was this at all truly necessary? Are the repercussions at all something to fear? It felt terrible, splitting pain and jolts and spasms in the young Gascon’s esophagus. And, the strong stink of his urine still damp on his doublet and layer below.

Drooling, spittle leaking forward from his occupied orifice and trailing down his bulging neck. D’Artagnan was more than content to close his tired eyes notwithstanding becoming more alert and in tune with the minute actions from the dark haired man’s horrible pulsating cock. 

He found it was sufficiently engorged, and the older man took great pleasure in further grasping the Gascon by his light hair and beginning to fuck him as if he was a simple and lowly object for his own orgasm. 

“You must become polite. There is no way for a proper man in this day and age to act like you. This honestly was unnecessary, h-however, you must learn your manners, young man!” The man with the blackish hair became flustered, building a rhythm as he slid his penis in and out of D’Artagnan’s strained mouth. The rhetoric he spewed was humiliating, it managed to make the tanned boy excited at his punishment. The feeling of the strange man’s cock inside of him, correcting him, the wet, horrible sounds of his cock and balls as they slapped against his chin with no regard to his dignity, it clearly was the reason he now strained against his own breeches. However, even if he wanted to he could not due to how roughly he was being taken as of the present. 

Somewhere, the young Gascon could feel the grotesque throbbing inside his sore throat as it was forced to stretch around the horrible pillar. His eyes watered and re wet his cheeks shamefully. 

With a heaving sigh, the older man began to retrieve his fat dick from his Gascon foe.  
He for a moment gasped repeatedly, pulling desperately at the younger man’s hair while his erect cock bounced freely and lewdly. He opened his eyes to look at it, as it slapped regardless of his dignity against his face and lips. The precum which had previously aided in lubricating D’Artagnan’s throat now dripped thickly from the huge tip still peeking out of his pale foreskin.  
In the shade, it’s shine from the complete coat of saliva was further apparent. It throbbed visibly, and it was ever so intimidating like the rest of the older man. Below, his testes swung and tapped against his throat.

The dark haired man had now shut his eyes, as he was near orgasm. He had grit his teeth, too, and groaned with feeling his coming orgasm.  
For a moment, he held this position: Both hands gripping D’Artagnan’s hair desperately, his back curved as he held his beyond impressively measured cock back from him. 

At last, it came and he gasped hoarsely.  
The former shut his eyes once more and whimpered, feeling it spurt forth from him. In his horny mind’s eye, he could see it as it bulged or tensed up with sperm and squirted his generous load over his waiting face and hair.  
It was almost like a possessive mark, a sign of domination. Until the blood had been returned from his slick penis, the aggressive and forceful shots of semen did not end from the older man onto the younger man.  
The ropes and pearls crossed often, and hung thickly from his chin, the Gascon’s lips, and so on…  
Still, like with his prior bathroom break, a little leaked from his drooling and now flaccid tip as it peeked out from his foreskin.  
The older man smiled, content with his handiwork. He released the insolent D’Artagnan’s hair and instead rested one hand on his hip, his other going to twist the end of his moustache as he cocked his head; the zeitgeist of his century’s contentment among men. 

Notwithstanding his pleasure, D’Artagnan remained utterly helpless and humiliated. He could not be bothered to desire to attend to his arousal at the moment. Still, just as before, he felt as if he was the first man to expire of immolation in this shame.  
Surely, the older man felt as if he had sufficiently ‘put him in his place’ so to speak. 

“Well.” He concluded haughtily. “Could you be bothered to clean me up once more, young man?” If you had listened hard enough, you could perhaps hear it be interpreted as if it was a laugh from the sadist. 

D’Artagnan felt as if he was going to vomit, his throat, his jaw, he felt as if he had been injured from their gratuitous encounter. He had gained nothing, and lost everything.  
Worst of it was simply because it was due to D’Artagnan’s behavior alone. 

Back in his mind, he had no choice but to accept the other male’s penis once more. He swirled his tongue around it, tasting the bitter and pungent sperm of the other man as he was made once more to clean him. 

After, it was perhaps expected, but the terrible and sadistic man with the blackish hair left him with another degrading slap of his flaccid and superior penis onto his face. Following this, he patted him on the wet cheek with his gloved hand as it’s twin cared to put away his enormous package once more. 

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He wanted to ask him for his name, and hope that he chances upon him once more in the days to come, but the man had to remind himself as his head cleared and he buttoned his breeches again that the important thing was that this Gascon learned his lesson, and did indeed go on to become a reformed young man of good manner.

With a swift turn, he set himself off down the hill and to the north once more. 

Notwithstanding, the worst of it was that D’Artagnan had never learned the name of this man.

**Author's Note:**

> feedback appreciated.  
> please, let me know what you would like to see next.  
> thanks


End file.
